What We're Made For
by chocolate chip homicide
Summary: 'When does it end' she whispered, her voice so high and soft and so unlike the girl who had killed so many - It gets a little lonely when everyone you've ever known is dead because of you - So he takes his useless grief and pours it into something worthwhile; he turns it into rage and hate and fire / / AUs where Glimmer, Clove and Cato win the 74th Hunger Games.
1. Empty Gold

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Not even a little bit.**

 **TW for sexual content, forced prostitution, sexual violence and regular violence. Y'know, regular stuff.**

 _ **[Glimmer]**_

When she wins, there's not a single man in the Capitol who doesn't want to taste her.

And who wouldn't? That golden face with the long, coppery lashes (Capitol-grade, imported) the full, crimson lips (her father had taken her to her first injection when she was twelve). Who could forget that ravishing young woman, all tan legs and curves in that sheer interview dress, the sequins clustering at her breasts and hips? _It's a lovely dress_ , Caesar had noted, _but I think there's a few of us who think you'd look even better_ without _it, hmm?_ Oh, how they'd laughed.

But she wouldn't win, they had thought. Just some airheaded blonde girl from District 1. They'd nodded and tutted when she had clambered into Cato's tent, one shoulder spilling out from her jacket, and she'd ranked lowest in the polls out of all the Careers. But they hadn't seen how she'd wound Cato's hair around her finger and how the rest of him followed. All they'd seen was the brutal boy and the beautiful girl couple with strange intensity, seen her take him in her mouth, seen how his fingers left soft bruises on her thighs, waist, breasts. _To the victor goes the spoils_ , she had whispered, and they'd thought she was talking about him.

The Games started. and they were textbook. They chased the scrawny girl from 12 up to the trees and slept, while she took watch. She hadn't fallen asleep. She'd seen the girl from 12 saw through the branch where the tracker jackers were, felt the tendrils of the idea as it crept into her mind. She woken Cato up with a kiss, pointed upwards and led them both away. Who could forget, that wonderful chaos that followed, as sharp Clove and bright Marvel, as Marina and Peeta and that boy from 3 they'd picked up all thrashed against the stings, their skin blooming with a hundred red welts, their faces mutated and disfigured. As Clove attacked Peeta and 3, thinking they'd done it, even as she drifted past insanity and into death. And the girl from District 1 suddenly shot up to third highest in the polls.

The boy from 3 was dead, though. So when the smoke from the false signal fires rose, Glimmer stayed behind to watch the supplies.

And she'd spotted the dark girl from 11 as she crouched in the bushes, trying to dislodge the supplies with her tiny slingshot. Laughed as she tried to run on her tiny, sparrow-thin legs and as she fell with the crimson blood spurting from her lips, screaming _Katniss_ with her last breath. How sweet.

Cato came out soon, bounding up to her with the news that Firegirl was dead, he'd dragged her death out in a mess of broken limbs and slit her throat once he'd had his fun, and it was just them and two more tributes, and then Victory. She'd kissed him again, her tongue slipping into his mouth and her fingers messing his hair, and Caesar had said _it looks like our star-crossed lovers have given way to new ones_. The golden lovers, he called them, and Glimmer loved it when she heard.

The fox-faced girl from District 5 managed to elude them for a while. But when Claudius Templesmith had announced the feast, they knew it was their call for blood. They had nothing they needed, not truly, their backpack was an empty sack. So as the girl emerged, red mane flying, from the Cornucopia, Cato took off behind her, a smile on his face and a knife in his hand and tackled her as she reached the treeline. The cannon rang out, and it sounded like music.

But when Cato came back, face flushed and grinning with exhilaration- that was Glimmer's crowning moment. Because when he came back, she cupped his jaw in her hands and peppered kissed down his neck and got down on her knees for him. She'd let him ravage his way across her beautiful limbs, tug at her golden hair, leave purple bruises and red marks and a soreness between her legs. And then she'd slit his throat just before he came.

And the Capitol went wild.

Thresh was easy, after that. She received a thin sword with gold inlaid in the hilt and a set of beautiful body armor made just for her. And she waited him out, until the hunger overpowered him and he came out to meet her. The fight was too easy, almost. The body armor was tough and the gloves had curved, spiked claws curving out, knives at every angle, and when the huge boy tried to grab her he meets only metal. She carved his face into bloody ribbons and just as the light left his eyes, looked up and gave the cameras that sleek, seductive District 1 smile.

If only she had known.

President Snow met her on the train and laid it all out to her. What happens to the pretty Victors, and how she was the prettiest one of all. How there were certain men and women in the Capitol who were baying for a taste of her like starving dogs. And then he shown her video of her doting, proud parents and her grandparents and each and every one of her cousins, who adored her- 12 year old Amber, 7 year old Sheen and 10 year old Krystal, Aurum and Luster, the baby twin boys. Tapes he had no right to, of her parents in the kitchen and the twins playing tag. Her breath had caught in her throat at that. But they're only _children_ , she had whispered, and he had looked at her as if to ask what was she, exactly?

There are a hundred ways a family could have an accident, he explained. And children- well, Amber was of Reaping age, wasn't she? And she swallowed hard and leaned forward to kiss him on the lips and he had slapped her like she was a dog. _Others_ , idiot girl.

"How many stops do we have to make?" Glimmer asked, chewing on a lock of blonde hair. Snow held up four fingers.

She wasn't a virgin, of course. Not since fifteen, not since a few awkward kisses and fumblings with a boy she discarded the next month. But she felt so much like one as Semel Mammonas, a Gamemaker with sharp eyes and a violet beard, grabbed her by the shoulders and spread her across his ottoman and made her bleed. She threw up in his fancy white sink as he slept, the tears burning her cheeks, holding back her own hair because there was no one else to do it.

 _One down_ , she had thought. She had thought it was just those four, and then she could go home. Idiot girl.

Then there was a brother and sister, and she had cringed at the thought. Callisto and Amalthea Lune, heads of the Agricultural and Peaceforce Councils respectively, with their skin painted magenta and their faces ridged and embedded with gemstones. She'd taken off her false nails before shoving her fingers up between her legs and Glimmer had to choke back her tears and pretend to _like_ it, even as the brother wrapped his arms around her waist and buried a half-human face in the nape of her neck.

Halfway done, she thought, lying awake with his arms and her legs draped across her, pinning her down to the sheets. She popped a silvery pill for the nightmares.

The next one was quick, a skinny, gangly man named Lucius, Head of some Senate, who licked at her jawline with a forked tongue and who whispered things about his wife that made her want to scream. She couldn't scream. Sheen had written her a letter in his wobbly handwriting, asking her when she was coming home. She couldn't write one back.

The fourth was the worst. Everyone could see her.

It was a party, thrown by the wives of the Managers of Districts 1, 4 and 7. Drinks, pouring forward, splashing on the carpet. Laughing men and women in ballgowns and spiked suits, she saw some outfits modelled off her own. Other victors, too- Cashmere and Enobaria and Gloss. Even Finnick Odair, sprawled across a sofa, licking wine off his fingertips while they pawed at him. But she knew, now, she what she had to do and what she did. They pressed diamond earrings and ruby rings and little vials of white powder and crystals into her hands, whispered secrets into her ears, called her _pet_ and _goldie_ and _darling_. The other Victors gave her looks of pity, and she didn't know which one she hated more.

And then, at 5 a.m. the white-suited attendants led them out into a car and back to the train. Glimmer sat on the leather in the darkness, with Enobaria on one side and the sickly-sweet Capitol on the other. Her breath made white clouds on the glass.

'You killed my tributes,' Enobaria said, her teeth glinting in the moonlight.

Glimmer just looked up at her. 'I wish I hadn't.'

'I'm glad you did,' she said. 'I don't know if they could handle it.'

'When does it end?' Glimmer whispered, her voice so high and soft and so unlike the girl who had killed Cato and Thresh and Clove.

'It doesn't,' Enobaria said, and put a hand on her shoulder. Glimmer left it there as she stared out of the car window, her eyes too dry and drained for any more tears.

And when she got home, and Krystal and Sheen clustered around her and her parents wept for joy and the baby twins clung to her skirts and Reaping-age Amber looked up at her in wonder and asked 'how was it?' all she did was smile and say

'Well, I got to meet Finnick Odair,'

 **Love it? Hate it? Want to slam it in a car door and throw the car in a ditch and throw the ditch into a flaming volcano? There's only one way to let me know. (hint: it starts with r and ends with eview)**


	2. Razored Silver

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, which to be honest is probably for the best.**

 **TW for violence.**

 _ **[Clove]**_

It's only natural that she won. Did anyone, ever doubt her? Well, she'd seen the polls. So no.

It was almost anticlimactic, for the most part. When the bitch from 12, Katniss, the girl who had outscored _her_ in training, flew across the grass, reaching out for her backpack, Clove was silent. She was silent, and she was swift and she aimed a knife between Katniss' eyes with lightning precision. She ducked. Not fast enough.

Which was massively disappointing, because Clove had been so looking forward to dragging it out, to gouging out her eyes and slicing open her lips, to slitting open her wrists and letting her bleed out on the grass. But she was too good, too precise, and Katniss was dead in a fraction of a second. Sprawled on the grass like a dark bird.

And then Thresh came out, legs thumping gracelessly across the grass and Clove dipped out from behind the Cornucopia and the silver knife flew in a thin line and landed in the back of his neck, jutting out from his mouth like some spiked, bloody tongue. It was almost too funny- for her, at least. She stumbled over, her fingers stifling her giggles, tiny tears of laughter rimming her lids, even as the parachutes fell.

As she opened them, she composed herself. More knives, who would have thought. Gold ones and silver ones, one with a diamond inlaid blade and one with her name carved into the hilt. She grinned at the sky for the sponsors and took off in the direction of Cato.

'Who?' he demanded as she reached him, wiping her blades off on her thigh.

'The big one from 11,' she breathed, smiling with glorious anticipation, 'and Firebitch.'

His reaction was almost as delighted as her own. They slammed into each other, her arms wrapped around his waist, whooping and cheering, clapping hands and almost singing in congratulations.

'Loverboy'll be dead soon enough,' Cato gasped, releasing her, 'and then it's just the redhead.'

He left the rest unsaid. And then Victory, for them and their district, to go home to their smiles and their love. This was better than when Glimmer had died, better than the look on Huxley's face when Cato had snapped his neck, better than volunteering. Better than everything.

They spent the evening feasting and celebrating- Thresh's and their own packs were full of food. Just as the artificial stars came into view, a cannon went off.

'Loverboy?' Cato asked.

It was. She saw later, in the recaps. Loverboy, for all his glory in the interviews, had unceremoniously bled out in the mud in a fog of unconsciousness. And at nightfall, as Cato slept and she took watch, the girl from 5 looted his corpse, and happened to try a taste of the berries he had in his pouch. She was dead before they reached her stomach.

Clove had looked up at the lightening sky as the sound faded away, just as the fake dawn was creeping into view, unable to believe it.

'Cato! _Cato_!' she had hissed, shaking him awake. With Career precision, he snapped awake, sitting up.

'What?' he murmured.

'There was a cannon, just now- the girl from 5, I think, she's dead, Cato, we've _won,'_ that was all she got out before he grabbed her jaw and kissed her.

She looked up expectantly at the sky.

'Aren't they going to say something?' she asked.

And then Claudius Templesmith's voice rang out, seeming to come from everywhere, and said-

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

She recognised what this meant a split second before he did, and her knife arced down, about to plunge into his heart- and he grabbed it, slammed her wrist against the ground, and he was on her before she could think.

The fight was long, bloody and spectacular. Everything the audience could have wanted. Speed against strength, precision against brutality. The affection of the kiss, their shared delight all melted away- if it had been in Clove anyway. They clashed again and again, tearing into each other like starving dogs, shredding skin, breaking bones.

It ended on top of the golden Cornucopia. Her hands steeped in blood up to the elbows. Looking at each other with the rising sun glinting silver-gold off her knife. She spat out a glob of bright red and two teeth- he snarled, a guttural, desperate sound and charged.

When she wrenched herself free, her knife stayed where she had put it. The silver blade bloomed red around his abdomen and when he tugged it out, he collapsed to the ground, slamming against the metal like a great, toppled building. She strode over, kissed the diamond-inlaid knife and plunged it between his eyes.

And it was glorious.

* * *

She's out for six days, apparently. While the doctors fix her shattered cheekbone and broken nose, set her twisted ankle and four broken ribs and sprained hip. She gets a whole new set of teeth, to replace the ones Cato's fist broke, and a new ear for the one he ripped off, and a new pinky on her left hand.

She's a Capitol sensation. She wears a blood-red dress to watch the recaps, the star-crossed lovers forgotten, the cameras now trained on her and Cato. Caesar presents her with the silver, diamond knife she used and she gasps in delight. The name Clove shoots up to number seven on the baby name list for girls in the Capitol, and number three for District 2. The rest of her knives are sold at exorbitant prices to her admirers. She's on fire.

And so when President Snow meets her on the train to explain his _system_ , she laughs in his face. And when two white-suited attendants send her to some fat, purple-haired Capitol bureaucrat's mansion, and he puts a hand around her waist and tugs her dress off her shoulders, she shatters his wineglass and drives the stem into his fleshy neck.

Snow tries to hit back. He kills her father (mountaineering accident) and her grandfather (suicide, hanging) and when that doesn't work he kills her entire class, all fifty-six of them, crushed and smothered in a dark tunnel beneath a freak avalanche. None of it works. She just doesn't care about people like that.

Her father- she respected. But she suspected a parent wouldn't train their child for the Games from the age of five if they cared about their wellbeing. He wouldn't have cried if she hadn't made it out, and she wouldn't cry now. She'd lost what little affection she'd had for him after he'd beaten her mother to death. Not that she'd much liked her mother.

Her grandfather had been alright. But there was nothing anyone could do to make her whore herself out for them. She saw some of the other Victors who did, and they disgusted her. She hadn't won the Games to go back to weakness, to some Capitol slut that they could buy and use and toss away like one of their shiny plastic toys. She was Clove Kentwell, every child in District 2 knew her name, and she would not let them touch her. She'd rip their throats out with her teeth first.

So Snow retreats, actually retreats back into his Capitol and didn't bother her anymore. She gets a huge house in Victor's Village, all marble and white, her knives displayed in a glass case by her bed. For the first year, admirers send her their own, ones carved out of volcanic rock or ruby or pearl, and she mounts them on the wall. They make paintings and products and even a statue of her, dark onyx eyes, poised and muscled with a glass knife in both hands, red stains running up the marble from her fingers to her wrists. There's a beautiful silk bed and pure white baths and wardrobes full of clothes, and opulence practically pouring out from the walls, enough to rival even the Capitol. .

But…

The years drip by, run through her fingers like liquid silver. She mentors girls every few years, watches them cut their bloody way through the Games and turns away when they die, rolls her eyes and makes a scornful noise. She hadn't trained them to die. When her first one wins, a tall, bright-eyed girl named Furrana Donner, and the cameras are trained on _her_ , and the tributes whisper _her_ name, and she shoots her final competitor in the heart and Snow lays the crown on _her_ brow-Clove dreams of getting to go back in the arena.

She grows old, and she hates it with every fibre of her being. Grey hairs start to appear at her scalp, her bones start to feel thin and brittle. She goes back to the Academy and so many of her knives miss the bullseye that she starts to panic, and she actually goes into the hated Capitol for hairdye and shallow surgery to keep her supple and strong, though what for she cannot say.

The years drip by and start to slow, the silver turning hard in her fingers. It gets a little lonely when everyone you've ever known is dead because of you. She finds herself missing Cato.

And then she is forty-three, crow's-feet and worn hands and waiting for a name to be called amongst her fellow Victors. And when hers is shouted and she walks forward to face the crowd, she admires the dying Snow's patience. To wait for her to age just before he struck back, finally getting revenge for her refusal to sell herself for him. The 100th Hunger Games, a white card drawn, previous Victors assembled and waiting and she is going back into the arena.

And as she stands on her podium, sizes up her opponents for the second time, feels the sing of the metal as it clashes against another, she beams.

The smile doesn't leave her face until the boy's arrow pierces her heart. _This_ is where she belongs.

* * *

 **Aw. Clove has always been one of my favorite characters. And I had** ** _slightly_** **too much fun** **writing sadistic.**

 **So, review or she might come and knife you in your sleep :)**


	3. Beaten Bronze

**This was kinda delayed. Oops :/**

 **Disclaimer: Actually, you know what? I do own the Hunger Games. Sue me, bitch.**

 **TW for gore and violence.**

 _ **[Cato]**_

The memory of her falling body stays with him forever.

He sees her just as she collapses. She's so powerful, so sharp, her nails and eyes and hair are razor blades and draw blood but in that moment she's nothing. She could be a flightless bird, stumbling off a tree and falling down, she could be a dark-clothed, pale-skinned scrap of silk tumbling through the air. The Career in him hates her for it. He can hear his district, disappointed, wondering how some nobody from 11 could be the one to split the skull of their best and brightest.

Someone screams her name, some breathless boy as he races across the grass, as he cradles her head like a lovesick puppy. Someone begs her to stay with him, though it's pointless and only makes him seem weak for the sponsors and does jack shit to actually bring her back, as if hope makes things happen-

 _Clove no please don't Clove stay just stay we were supposed to win together please Clove please_

It's pathetic. He's pathetic.

She deserved better. The thought springs to mind, burns the tip of his tongue. He doesn't love her, he doesn't know how something like him could love something like her, but they deserved better. They were meant to go home together, the first famous pair, bring twice the glory to their district. And some thick bastard from 11 had ripped their dreams apart. How _dare_ he.

So he takes his useless grief and pours it into something worthwhile. He turns it into rage and hate and fire. He remembers the dent in her head so big he could fit four fingers in and he runs until his legs burn. He remembers how she looked, rag-doll thin, and he stalks Thresh across the grass, into his domain. He remembers how she was, the malice that she had pooled behind dark eyes, and he channels her as he finds the brute.

He wouldn't have minded dying. He'd prefer to live, but without the Games, what else is there? Clove would have replaced Games with killing, and she would have walked into an ocean of fire to win, but if not for the animal instinct, the fear inside him, he could have died glorious and peaceful here.

There's a crypt in his district that towers above most other buildings- marble-white, the colour of death and huge. The words MORTUI SUNT HEROIBUS are engraved in gold, bold and imposing, daring you to think any differently, written so forcefully that it couldn't be anything but the truth. Thick coffins lie spaced, some with names, most blank. Some are written with quotes-

She died in glory

We will never forget

The best of what he could have been, he was.

Along the floor, over and over, is written _the strongest and bravest and best_. It's those words that drive him and so many to the Academy, to hold their heads high and volunteer. All those who die in the Games die in glory, and that is enough for him.

Or it could have been. But now, now he knows that he can't die, not before he's ripped Thresh's heart out from his ribs. _He'll pay_ , he mutters under his breath, and the sponsors clap their hands and giggle with delight. They know a show's coming.

He finds Thresh in the grass that goes up to his jaw, whispers against his temples. Thresh is barehanded but not weaponless- he has his fists, and out of his pockets he pulls the stone he used to kill Clove

(kill Clove- he's never thought about her in past tense before; he can't imagine world that she's not a part of, where she fades into nothing but memory, and he hates it more than anything)

If he was sane before, he isn't now.

The fury explodes, landmines of rage and fire bursting across his skin. The boy stepped off his podium and he's been blown to smithereens, leaving only the ashes of a skeleton. He lunges at Thresh and they fall to the floor, fists and bone and flesh ripping, dark skin pale skin, you can't tell where Thresh ends and the monster begins.

Thresh screams and Cato grabs his jaw, hooking his teeth and ripping out half of them with a lump of stringy, dripping flesh-

Cato brings his sword down and Thresh grabs it just before the hilt, the steel biting down on his finger-bones-

A fist against a nose, a sickly-sweet _crunch_ -

Cato's sword goes flying, but Thresh is torn in shreds with holes and gashes-

He feints, he ducks, and Cato shoves a fist into a bright red wound in Thresh's stomach and grabs and _pulls_ -

The image of Cato, holding a fistful of Thresh's bloody innards in triumph, as the tears fall down the boy's face and he collapses to the ground is one that will live in infamy for as long as there are Hunger Games.

When he makes his last stand, it's on a blood-slick Cornucopia with the Seam girl pointing an arrow between his eyes and her lover clenched between his forearms.

The boy is choking, his face turning the colour of a bruise, the breath choking out. The girl's fingers are trembling, the silver bow seeming less threatening every second.

The boy's eyes roll back in his head, and the girl howls.

Her arrows shoots forward with lightning precision and hits the boy's body as Cato holds it up, skull rolling back on his neck and he charges forward and collides into the girl and she slips, stumbles, screams and falls.

They play it in slow-motion at the recaps- Peeta's limp corpse colliding into a crying Katniss even as she fumbles with her bow, his body pinning her to the ground as the mutts snarl and catch the scent of blood and bare pearl-white teeth.

Cato watches as the mutts rip at them, as Katniss snatches her bow and aims arrow after arrow at them. But they overpower her eventually, and the sleek, vicious mutt that Cato can't help calling Clove sinks its teeth into her throat and her cannon sounds.

He doesn't want to go. It had her eyes. It almost felt like she was there.

* * *

As a reward, he supposes, Snow lets him have two weeks with his family. When he gets out of the train, his parents are waiting, his mother weeping softly. Even the dog, bounds up into his arms to meet him, sniffling at his face. The rest of the District too, reporters and excited children, giggling girls with their made-up faces, aspiring boys and Volunteer hopefuls.

There's a traditional ceremony- they burn the death mask they'd made for him at the start, and the bronze-gold alloy it was made from melts down into liquid and is poured into a sword mould. They hang it on the door of his home in Victor's Village, saying _immortal_ , saying _this is what you cheated_. They chant his name, over and over, _Cato Cato Cato_.

Clove's funeral is a quieter affair. The plain white coffin she is shipped home in is discarded, her body hoisted into the marble casket. The mask is placed over her face, eyes still open, and the lid is slid shut, heavy and unyielding. He makes sure they bury her knives with her. It's what she would have wanted.

Her casket is plain, bearing only her first name. But Cato knows what it should say. _She deserved better._ That's what he would write.

* * *

When Snow summons him to the Capitol and he makes his first appointments, he doesn't particularly see what the fuss is about. He only has three, and they're all women. He's fucked girls before, and women aren't particularly different, even if some are violet-skinned and have gems for eyes.

His fourth is an almost-thirty year old woman named Adserta Crane. The name seems familiar and she says it should be- her father is Seneca, Head Gamemaker. Snow is delighted with the latest Games- that plot twist, that fight with Thresh, that girl with her arrows, it's better drama than any reality TV-show could ever come up with.

"And perhaps," she titters, "he'll let me keep you indefinitely."

And he does, apparently. All his meetings from then on are with her. Her skin goes from pale blue to a bright yellow, and he spends almost every night with her now, she crawls up on top of him and whispers nonsense in his ears, blackpurple hair trickling down her back. She's mostly an annoyance, but a tolerable one. If he can face Thresh and Katniss and Clove's glass-eyed corpse, he can fuck some plastic woman from the Capitol.

She takes him to other places, too. Drags him along to balls and dinners and galas, drapes herself in silk and satin gowns, clings to his forearm. Shows him off like a pretty trophy that sings, dresses him up in suits. He won't get any of their surgeries, but he lets himself be pulled to her events and in front of the bug-eyed cameras, their photographs in the magazines: (Head Gamemaker's daughter talks budding romance with this year's hottest Victor).

Adserta bubbles that he's becoming a _celebrity_ , a proper one, and tucks her yellow, tattooed legs around his waist as they sit on her couch, drinking her wine, and she reaches glittery nails under her shirt, and he takes

it as a cue to fuck her again. She's enamoured with him. Her pretty little Victor.

He takes what he can get. Adserta is fake and made-up, but it's just her for now, and he's seen what some of the other Victors are made to do, and as much as it pains him to admit it, she's his protector. She doesn't like to share, she admits in a guilty pout, fake childishness in her voice. And no one will mess with her Daddie.

He's empty enough that he doesn't care anymore, that when she proposes to him on New Year's Day he takes her by one hand and says yes in a dull blank voice. She squeals and clutches his waist, and he starts to despise her.

When she finally has the decency to die, she's taken twenty-six years of his life. He's not even sure what she dies _of_ , only that she's finally gone. She's only given him one good thing to show for it.

You'd think that Snow would let him be forgotten. But no. The balls and events Adserta has pulled him back and forth to haven't gone unnoticed by paparazzi, his shocking Games have not been forgotten. There are still people in the Capitol that want him to smile and lie down for them, be their little fucktoy. When the notice is pressed into his hand, a date and time and name and a white rose, he tears it into shreds and goes home.

His District taught him not to feel. The children he hunted down didn't seem real- he doesn't know their names, mostly, he's not numb, he just doesn't see why he should feel anything for them. It was bred out of him. Even Clove. Maybe if they lived in another district he could have loved her. But you can't grow affectionate towards your district partner, how else would you kill them?

No one ever told him you couldn't love your son.

When the 100th Hunger Games roll round, the _twist_ is that children of previous Victors are to be reaped. He punches a hole right through his television set. And he has to watch as Litan, not yet thirteen and skinny and wide-eyed, is called into the arena.

To pay for his father's sins.

* * *

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